


Sort the Bedlam

by Atypical16



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dark Fantasy, Dom/sub Undertones, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Growth, Humiliation, Legilimency, Masturbation, Mentor/Protégé, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oedipal Issues, Professor Tom, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Spanking, Teacher-Student Relationship, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-06-14 14:49:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15391119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atypical16/pseuds/Atypical16
Summary: Harper prefers to observe and analyze the behavior of others, until her own complex comes creeping up on her. With the help of Professor Riddle, she picks apart her deepest desires.Please note that this straddles the line between fanfiction and original.





	1. Dark Fantasy

**Author's Note:**

> Companion to [The Outliers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11707455/chapters/26365128) but this goes in a _very different direction._ Updated monthly.

_August 1946_

Harper was planning on passing another supper alone in her room, picking at a plate brought to her by Esther before the maid retired to the attic for the night. This had been the case for the past week, ever since her date with Felix. The memory of that wonderful afternoon juxtaposed with its harsh ending burned the back of her throat. 

When a knock came to her bedroom door, Harper opened it and saw that it was her mother standing inches in front of her instead of Esther.

“Please come to supper, dear,” Euporie said, giving her daughter a weak, hopeful smile. 

Harper opened her mouth to decline yet again but up close, she could see just how defeated her mother looked. Euporie was her usual pristine, docile self in strands of pearls, pale pink robes, and hair pinned in an elegant knot. Yet her eyes were rimmed red and her shoulders were slumped.

“Please come tonight, Harpalyke.” Her voice was soft and raised in plea. 

The younger witch let out a breath. “Fine. I’ll be but a minute.”

“Thank you.” Her mother turned away and retreated down the corridor, heels clicking against glossy wood.

Harper let out another sigh before heading to her wardrobe to change into her dining robes and brush her hair. In the mirror above her vanity, she caught sight of the scowl on her face and decided to keep it there. She owed her mother a break from Charles, but that didn’t extend to being in a pleasant mood. 

Her parents were already seated at the large oak table draped with a hand-sewn white cloth, side-by-side as usual. Harper took hers in front of her mother. Beside her, Annie’s seat remained glaringly empty. Before Harper had a chance to bring her first bite to her mouth, her father spoke.

“I’ve spoken to Herbert Murdoch and he assures me that his son won’t go anywhere near you.”

She kept her eyes trained on her plate, her fingers tightening around the fork.

“I think it goes without saying that if you disobey, the consequence will be dire,” he continued.

She noticed he hadn’t yet touched his food, but his goblet was already empty, only a few sticky drops of bourbon left inside. _Yes, sir_ , she should say, but she couldn’t pry open her mouth. Her lips were pursed too hard in fury.

“Is that clear?”

Both sets of her parents’ eyes were on her, waiting for an answer that wasn’t coming.

“Answer me, Harpalyke,” her father prompted, tone heavy with threat.

“Yes, sir,” she finally forced out, willing her hand to raise her fork, but it wouldn’t comply. Her eyes stung with angry tears, which she luckily held at bay.

The rest of the meal passed in silence. Three more goblets of bourbon were drained by Charles while Euporie and Harper picked at their food, keeping their heads inclined. Harper ate as fast as possible while still trying to maintain grace, as her father was fond of slapping her hand when she leaned on her table manners. At last, after what seemed like hours, the last bite was down her throat and she could utter the blessed words. “Please excuse me.”

When she set her plate in the sink, she decided she could skulk around Number 18 no longer. Her father’s presence and Annie’s absence filled the entire house, seeping into the family’s skins, keeping them on edge.

Her palm had just enclosed the handle of the front door, ready to squeeze, when she heard footsteps behind her. She turned to see Charles entering the foyer, glowering at her. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

“For a walk,” she said coolly, eyebrows raised as if to ask, _isn’t it obvious?_

“Not at this time of day,” he snapped. “Now get back upstairs." 

“Father, I am of age now,” she reminded him, holding her balled up fists behind her back.

His cold grey eyes narrowed, beaming disgust and fury into her skull. “It matters not your age, for you still behave like a little girl. Under my roof, you will obey my rules.”

He’d said something similar a week ago, standing in that same position in this exact spot. Harper had just Apparated from Hogsmeade and jogged through the sticky London air, hoping to sneak inside undetected. Her mission had failed, Charles had caught her, and things had worsened from there.

Though she did not want a repeat of that, Harper stood tall and said with defiance, “Perhaps I shall no longer be under your roof, then.”

It was a ridiculous and impulsive thing to say; she had nowhere to go until the first of September, and she expected Charles to scoff and tell her get lost, then, if she knew what was best. Instead, he grew even more angry.

“You wouldn’t dare leave here without my permission. You are under my control, girl, best not forget that. And I’ll be damned if whispers start of _my_ daughter being a filth-loving whore.”

Without her awareness, Harper’s fists snapped to her side as she stood rigid. “Murdoch is _not_ filth, Father, and I’m not a whore.”

With nothing more to say, she turned away and clasped the door handle again. Before she could push the door to freedom, she felt hot breath on her cheek as a rough grip turned her around and slammed her against the wood.

A yelp of shock escaped her mouth. Charles had her pinned by the shoulders. With her heart pumping, she looked her father in the face for the first time. His handsome features were twisted in rage, his eyes on fire with loathing. 

“You—” she started, but he released her shoulders and clamped one hand onto her jaw, digging his fingers into her cheeks, while the other plunged into his robes. Pulling out his wand, he gripped her jaw and leaned in until his face was barely an inch from her own.

“I said, _you’re not leaving_ ,” he hissed through his teeth. “One more insubordination and I’ll—”

A shrill cry of “CHARLES!” filled the air, causing him to whip around. Euporie stood in the archway of the foyer, her hands on her hips. “You dare use magic against her? Your own daughter!”

“Shut the hell up, Euporie,” Charles snapped, releasing Harper and rounding on his wife. Rubbing her cheeks, she bolted upstairs as her parents’ yelling echoed around the house.

Letting out a lead-filled breath, she locked the door, pulled off her robes, and climbed onto the bed. She’d tried to deflect tension away from her mother, but her mere presence was a provocation. Her father obviously loathed her beyond reason: _filth-loving whore._ What had she ever done to prompt such hatred from him? 

To her aggravation, tears blurred her eyes, so she refused to dwell on her father. Last time, he’d struck her across the face and forbid her to see Felix, and she’d retaliated by fleeing up here and imagining herself splayed-out in front of the boy, teasing him.

A tingle similar to that time was now overtaking her. Apparently, she had an attraction to half-bloods, so what of it?

She’d already done the scene in the forest with Murdoch, so she tried to conjure another one, but strangely, Murdoch’s freckled face was replaced by another wizard’s, another half-blood: her Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Tom Riddle.

Tall, dark-haired, and generally considered handsome and brilliant, Riddle was nothing like Murdoch in personality. While Murdoch had a grin on his face at nearly all times, Riddle was surly and strict, ruling his classes and all of Hogwarts, to an extent. Harper tended to avoid him at all costs.

Yet it was him she pictured now, standing over her and fixing his intense gaze on her. She didn’t care for Riddle that much, since he was rather arrogant, but her mind, hazed with lust, did not think of any of that. 

Soon Riddle was hazed out too, her body taking over all, gripping the hem of her dress and lifting up, leaning over to peek at a place she didn’t spend too much time on. Only thick white thighs and plain pink knickers underneath, but she decided to explore anyway, guided by a twist of hunger deep inside. Her palms slid over the plump, smooth skin of her inner leg.

Last time, after Charles had slapped her and she’d cried like a little girl, Harper had done the very same, spreading her legs and rubbing herself. Under the afternoon sun flooding through her window and Professor Riddle’s imaginary stern gaze, she went further, peeling her knickers from slick, throbbing skin and sliding them to her ankles.

Breathing heavily, she leaned over, a lock of hair dropping over her face, and examined the pink lips between her legs. Her fingertips traced the puffy skin, sending tingles of pleasure through her legs and torso. Out of curiosity, she brought her fingers to her lips, inhaling her musky scent. If her brain was on, it would tell her that her behavior was improper and needed to stop. Her body, on the other hand, wanted more: the tip of her tongue ventured between her lips and pressed against her fingers. She did not get enough to taste anything, but the scent of herself aroused her even more.

Impatient fingers fumbled with the buttons at the top of her dress. Once they were undone, she yanked the fabric farther apart, revealing her sister’s too-small silk bra, ample breasts spilling out. The pink flesh between her legs was clenching with need now, out in the open. 

A finger slid within the folds, ready to sink its way through wet warmth, but it was met with a barrier of resistance. Not wanting to hurt herself, she reached for the button she’d discovered last time. Her chest was heaving, her skin burning, her plump lower lip caught between her teeth. _Naughty, indecent witch_ , taunted the imaginary Riddle as he watched her rub herself, panting.

After a moment of frantic pawing at her mound, trying to keep her fingers steady on that hot button, she gave up and thrust herself upon the largest pillow, clamping her legs around it and burying her face into the satin cover. Muffled sighs filled the room as she rubbed her labia furiously with the pillow, pressing the button at last. To hell with the wizards; she had no experience with them at this point. Her imagination was shut off, overcome with the ringing in her ears and tightening muscles. The sensation of flesh against silk, soaking it with fluid, blocked out all else.

A minute later, release came, drenching the pillow and relaxing her muscles. With one last sigh, now one of content, Harper rolled to her side, asleep before her cheek sank into a soft cloud of silk and cotton. The pillow between her legs remained nestled there, encircled by her bunched-up dress and bare thighs.

~

Charles hadn’t signed up for this. All he had asked for was a pureblood wife and continuation of an enhanced bloodline. Instead he’d gotten a useless tart and two mental, wayward daughters.

His hand twitched at his side, fighting the urge to strike his wife across the face like he’d done to his daughter a week prior. Every bitch in this house wanted to challenge him, the ungrateful lot of them. Now Euporie was pushing him closer to his limit, giving him cheek he didn’t need right now. “She is your daughter, Charles, don’t you love her?”

He scoffed and stood up, ready to leave the table. “Take a rest, Euporie,” he commanded, striding out of the dining hall. “You’re being hysterical.” No wonder Ananke was barking mad. Apparently, Slytherin’s noble bloodline was not clear of all taint.

His wife let out a dissatisfied huff, but Charles ignored it. If she knew what was good for her, she’d shut up already and retire to the bathtub for the evening.

Aggravatingly still, her stupid question was echoing in his mind as he ascended the stairwell. _Don’t you love her?_ The real answer, one he wanted to spit out loud, was no, he did not love Harpalyke. In fact, he fucking hated her. 

He had tried to love her. When she was small, even though she was chubby and blank-faced, he’d held her on his lap and praised her. And that defiant, insolent little bitch had the nerve to rebuff him.

 And last week—she’d come home with rumpled robes and her hair a mess, no doubt from lying on her back with that repugnant half-blood. Charles was glad he’d slapped her fat little face; she deserved a hundred more.

Upstairs was silent save for Esther’s soft thumps from the attic. Esther, the mudblood maid he currently held in higher esteem than his disobedient daughters. He stood rigid in front of his youngest’s door, listening—silence. His hand clasped the knob—locked. Frowning, he racked through his mind, trying to remember if he’d replaced the wards. Yes, he had, so she was unable to Disapparate _._

 _“Alohomora,”_ he muttered, pointing his wand at the keyhole. There was a click, and then the door slowly opened.

Tucking his wand away, Charles stepped inside the room. The surroundings hit him at once: a slightly sweet musk filled his nose and his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Only the deep orange sliver of dusk shone through the window, allowing him to make out a figure on the bed.

This was when he should’ve retreated back to the parlor for a nightcap, just one to help him leave the rubbish at the Ministry and sleep all the way through. But for reasons he did not allow himself to explain, he closed the door behind him and stepped further into the room.

His daughter was sleeping on her side. Her dress was pushed up, revealing her soft, curvy leg, so pale it seemed to glow like the surface of the moon. Her knickers were below her knees, a pillow jammed between her legs. At once, the scent was explained, the source visible: a dark, damp spot in the silk just beneath her thighs. _And I am not a whore_ , she’d pronounced and gone on to mount her pillow like a bitch in heat.

He snapped his eyes away from the dark spot tucked under the slope of white skin. Just what in the hell was he doing? This was his daughter, for Merlin’s sake, the plainer daughter at that. Yet in this moment, there was nothing plain about her. The spacey little girl he’d known was gone, replaced with this alluring young woman.

Another curve of soft white caught his eye: her breasts were pressed against the pillow, partially obscured by a thick tendril of her long, dark hair.

Feeling his erection straining against his trousers, Charles reached out, imagining his fingertips sliding over that lush hill of flesh, pushing her hair away from it. Thankfully, a bout of lucidity arrived, causing him to jerk his hand back.

Bloody hell, this was absurd. Charles was an attractive, high-status wizard with enough charm to get any secretary in the Treasury Department into bed, especially now that he’d been announced as Head. At 42 years old, he had no trouble at all seducing witches fresh out of Hogwarts. The only one he couldn’t seem to seduce was Euporie, but he didn’t want that frigid bitch anyway.

And if he was going to size up his daughters, surely Ananke would win first place. Sweet Ananke, the younger version of Euporie, always doing her best to please him. Even now in her addled state, she was eager to earn her spot back in his good graces.

Yet he hadn’t the slightest inappropriate inclination toward Ananke, despite her willowy figure and sharp features. She was only his daughter, the image of purity and beauty. 

Behind him, the streetlight just outside the window flickered on, bathing the room in dim yellow, competing with the light of a full moon. Harpalyke was just as beautiful, he had to admit, albeit very different from her sister. She had a layer of padding over her whole body, the steep curve of her hips pronounced by her position. Her heart-shaped mouth was slightly open, long eyelashes resting against plump cheeks.

His cock was straining against the fabric of his trousers, demanding release. He would never touch her, he vowed on the spot, but he could indulge in fantasy; why not? No one would suspect such a thing from the Head of the Treasury Department.

He rested a hand on his groin and slowly dragged his fingers across the bulge, letting his mind run free. A scene played out in front of his eyes: his hands yanking away the pillow and clasping onto her thighs, leaving red marks on her soft skin…lowering his head between her legs, breathing in her musk…sweet, tender flesh against his tongue, just the quickest taste…

She would wake fully then, realizing what was happening. _Father, what…?_ She’d mumble in a sleep-soaked voice. He would clap a hand over her mouth, looking into her eyes. Wide with surprise they’d be for a moment, but he could stroke her cheek, calm her down. Or apply magical restraint if that didn’t work.

And then he’d break her once and for all, reduce her into a moaning mess, thrusting his hate into her. Perhaps she would cry and protest at first, but eventually she’d submit to it, her wet little cunt clenched around his cock, begging for more. _You want love and attention, darling? Here you are, then_.

After pumping his seed into her, he would withdraw and see blood smeared across his cock. Beneath that, her swollen, throbbing cunt nestled between thick, quivering thighs. _Daddy_ , she would whimper like she should have done as a little girl, adoring him at last. The loss of her virginity would cause her lingering pain, so he’d duck and plant a kiss on the sticky pink lips, a reward for taking it like such a good girl. 

A girlish sigh reached his ears, bringing him back to reality. He lowered his gaze and realized he was gripping his erection through the fabric.

Harpalyke was shifting on the bed, rolling over. Charles had enough sense to swing his robes closed, eyes transfixed on the enticing sight before him. She lay on her back, giving a view of her bra pulled taut against her overflowing bosom. Her hair slid across it, uncovering the faintest pink crescent of her nipple. She reached up to rub her eyes, pulling up her dress just a fraction, revealing a bit of pink skin peeking through dark fuzz, tempting him. Then her legs clamped shut, her dress was yanked down, the pillow held against her chest—she was lucid.

Charles continued to tower over his daughter as she curled up into a ball and peered up at him, eyes wide in horror and cheeks tinged bright pink. He kept his gaze cold and still, suppressing a smirk. Now she would feel like the disgraceful whore she was.

Without speaking, he turned away and left the room, kicking the door closed behind him. _Don’t you love her?_ Euporie asked again in his head. No, he would never love Harpalyke, because she would never properly submit to him.


	2. Shame & Doubt

_February 1947_

Now that his walking distraction was out of his office, Tom could think and reflect clearly. He took up his usual spot by the fireplace in the old green armchair, goblet in hand.

The unmasked, aggressive Legilimency session had been a good idea. Now he was punishing Messier instead of rewarding her, and learning some intimate details about her in the process. Of course, there was always the question of why he had a remote interest in the first place, but he would save that for another night. Now he had a more interesting task for his mind, like rifling through her repressed memories.

Naturally, they were all coated in shame. The girl didn’t seem comfortable with male attention, though with her face and family status, foolish adolescent boys were going to be the tip of the iceberg. Also, she liked to pretend her father didn’t affect her, but the memories showed otherwise.

The least clear of the memories stuck out: a tall figure standing over a moonlight-bathed girl on a bed. The girl was Harper, facing Tom’s direction and hugging a pillow, rousing from sleep. The scene had lasted less than a second, during which it held no significant importance.

Yet the surge of shame was so strong, as was her reaction, unexpected from the least dramatic girl he’d ever known. She’d fallen to her knees, ready to cry, so he’d backed off, mission accomplished. What was the big fuss about the figure, presumably her father, watching her sleep? Odd, yes, but surely she didn’t expect normalcy from Charles Messier? 

Not only was Tom a natural at Legilimency, it was one of the top magical skills he reveled in performing. It required complete understanding of human behavior, of the motivations behind it. Memories told someone’s life story, but without deciphering the person’s assigned meaning to them, they were about as revealing as a biography, written for a quick way to milk a couple of extra galleons when fame started to wane. Which is to say not at all if he wanted information he could actually use.

One of the finer-tuned skills of mind magic was turning one’s own mind into a Pensieve, able to explore every detail of even the vaguest memories. Closing his eyes and letting his hands slacken on the armrests, Tom cleared his mind of all else but the scene of Harper on her bed, her father standing over it.

She was shifting in her sleep, rubbing her eyes… She looked up at the figure and recoiled in horror. Her cheeks flushed red and she hugged the pillow tighter like a little girl. She was afraid, no, she was ashamed. Her father must’ve held a face of disgust. At a sleeping girl? No, Tom was missing something.

Now it was time to reconstruct the entire memory, refining the details. Harper’s room, flowered wallpaper, frilly white rubbish everywhere, exactly the type he’d expect an upper-class girl to have. Harper on her bed, Messier standing there like a prat, the angle of the light from the large window through the lacy white curtains… Over and over he played out the scene, inspecting the girl’s face, the figure, but this side of the room revealed nothing—he’d have to fully enter the memory and walk around the side of the bed.

Tom had never attempted this, but he knew it could be done, and that was enough for his god-like magical ability to sort out the rest. Sure enough, he was able to sink into the memory, landing beside Messier.

He took a few steps beyond the foot of the bed to see the other man’s face. To Tom’s immense frustration, his expression was blank, though he was in an odd position, clutching the lapel of his robes like someone was about to spring up and wrangle them off of him. 

However, once Tom’s eyes fell on Harper, the cause of shame was instantly clear: her dress was pushed up nearly to her waist, her legs on display straddling the pillow. He was aware of his own hand resting on his clothed erection, but he ignored it, filing the image away for later.

She pushed her dress down over those luscious legs and curled up. Messier’s eyes were on her but still no expression…

No, no, Tom had missed something again; he had to start over. He tore himself out of the memory, back on the armchair by the dying fire. After a swallow from the goblet, he brought up the memory again. Now that it was reconstructed, he had to insert himself with this different view. 

Again: in the girlish room, the dim light, the shadowed figure tugging on the lapel of his robes. Harper awakened, rubbed her eyes… And there it was on Messier’s face, in his eyes—a flash of lust. They were trailing over her bosom down to the spot where her body met the pillow, a gap in her dress.

At last, the reason for the intense shame explained in full. Harper had improved her Occlumency by burying this memory immediately after the event, not letting herself dwell on it. For a novel Occlumens, that was the easiest route to protection, but Tom, being the greatest Legilimens in the world, had no trouble pulling it out. She was so busy hiding it, she’d failed to process it correctly.

He’d struck gold; time well spent. Charles Messier had a nasty little secret and Tom had even more leverage over Harper. _Daddy’s little girl is all grown up_. He unbuckled his trousers and slipped a hand under his drawers to stroke himself, picturing her on her bed, sleeping after playing with herself. Even her own father wanted her, and it was Tom who had her.

Leaning back and gripping his cock, he recalled his twentieth birthday a couple of months prior. New Year’s Eve 1946: he’d planned to spend it alone, his favorite state of being, but then his naughty little student showed up, drunk in this little red dress, and climbed upon his lap. Of course, Tom wasn’t going to refuse such a treat, so he greeted the arrival of 1947 up to the hilt in raw, tight flesh.

Taking her virginity was nice, but not a novel experience, as he’d had two other virgins before her. Somehow just having _her_ was an intense aphrodisiac in itself. Stoic, distant Harper Messier on her back, panting for him, pulling him close—quite the prize.

Her virginity, her intimate memories, the behavior book—all the things she held so dear, his. She was his now, and soon he would make that crystal clear.

~

The day had brought both fortune and misfortune. Riddle had brutally invaded Harper’s mind and exempted her from the dreaded Winter Ball. Now she was spared from the sight of Felix Murdoch dancing and laughing with Otylia Masiakiewicz.

Harper sighed as she turned off the tap, gazing into the large tub filled with pink-bubbled water. After undressing, she lowered herself in. Leaning her head back on the porcelain, and closed her eyes.

She missed Druella and Beryl, both married to wealthy, pureblood wizards like good little witches, meeting expectations. Though the pair of them could be quite swotty and dull, Harper had found small comfort in their company. However, that didn’t outweigh the pleasure of having the whole seventh-year girls’ dormitory, including the bathroom, to herself.

This gave her much more time to sit in the tub and explore herself. The parts of her which remembered New Year’s Eve were disappointed in the lack of Riddle’s physical contact—had she not performed well? No, he was simply ending contact that had gone too far.

That did not abate the desire racing through her nerves. Annie had told her once that witches must suppress their urges unless their husbands wish them to express it. But suppression led to hysteria, and Harper couldn’t shake the fear of sharing her sister’s affliction. Thus, she let her hand glide up her inner thigh under the water.

New Year’s Eve was as good a place to start as any. Skip annoying Grisham and his “special” champagne to walking across the dark Defense classroom—she was getting hot just recalling the anticipation. _What am I doing? Will he reject me?_ Though she’d known already by then he would not.

 _What brings you here so late, dear?_ Like he couldn’t tell just by virtue of her presence. Eyes still closed, Harper visualized Riddle in his armchair, looking up from his book, dark eyebrows raised. Even that late on a holiday, he was dressed in stiff clothes, all of his wavy hair in place, dark against his pale skin. If a bat could morph into a human, she thought, and a most handsome one at that.

She’d remembered it was his twentieth birthday and used that as an excuse, but of course Riddle had seen through that. Silently, with his eyes, he’d invited her on his lap. 

Merlin, had Grisham done her a favor with that champagne, since Harper had abandoned her shy, proper behavior. No wonder the purebloods were against such hedonism. It was quite a rush of euphoria, giving into her urges and his simultaneously.

Her professor had a knack for persuasion, but he hadn’t needed to use his words, not yet. His hands, ice cold, had warmed her right up by traveling up her thighs, squeezing her rear.

In the bathtub, lost deep inside her head, Harper’s hand met the delicate skin between her legs, hot and aching for touch. What power that potion had given her, the strength to seduce her professor, to mouth his neck and leave dark red marks and rub herself over his erection.

Meanwhile, in real life, her fingers were sliding between her folds easily now that Riddle had broken the barrier. It had left behind a drop of blood on his finger, which he’d dragged across her thighs.

Under the water, Harper increased her pace, recalling the flash of lust in her professor’s eyes. All stoicism and rationality from either of them had beamed through the circular bedroom window deep into the Black Lake. When he was on top of her, thrusting into her, it mattered not that he was her often-insufferable professor, that he’d formed a gang of aggressive, blood-purist young wizards, capitalizing on Grindelwald’s regime.

His hands pinning her wrists down had been more important, along with his ragged breath in her ear and his shaft rubbing against a button inside she had no idea existed until that bliss-shrouded moment.

Breathing heavily, Harper leaned in, driving her finger harder and harder, biting her lip. Her upper arms pushed her large, round breasts together, bubbles coating her pert, pale pink nipples. Excruciating tension took hold of her muscles, locking them in place, scrunching up her face. Her breath grew heavier still, tinged with tiny cries.

Riddle’s taunting voice, too distant, filled her mind. _Naughty little witch seducing her professor._

“Ohh,” she cried, ignoring the splashes in her hair and face, sliding her rear over the slick porcelain tub in rhythm with her hand. She was about to tip over…

_Wouldn’t the Head of Treasury be ever so appalled to find out what his precious Harpalyke is doing?_

Harper stopped dead, her finger still inside. For a moment, her head cleared and reminded her of that awful memory with her father. It had brought her so much shame, having him see her like that, his disgust. The Double P had overridden the memory in New Year’s Eve, turning her on at the prospect of Charles finding out what she was engaging in—

 _No, no…_ Her hand stiffened, ready to withdraw from between her legs. _That’s disgusting_ , an inner voice scolded. _Not even you’re that improper._

And Riddle had seen it. On that summer day, once the door had closed behind Charles’ back, Harper had slid the memory down the rabbit hole, intending for it to never see the light of consciousness. But Riddle simply plucked it out like a raspberry from a hedge, along with the smothering coat of shame.

Harper let out a harsh _ughh_  of aggravation as the desire dissipated at once. She pulled her finger out and yanked at the chain to drain the bathtub. She should’ve washed her hair but to hell with it, she’d pin it up tomorrow. In a huff, she climbed out of the tub and wrapped herself in a towel.

Leave it to Charles and Riddle to ruin any vestige of pleasure she could give herself. She hadn’t asked Riddle to invade her mind—well, alright, he was helping her build Occlumency skill. But that didn’t mean he was required to dig up every bloody detail of her dysfunctional family, either.

 _He enjoys it_ , she thought snidely, yanking her nightgown down to her knees. _Not as if he’s got any frame of reference_. She gripped her hairbrush and drove it through limp, tangled strands, looking at her scowled face in the mirror. 

And Charles—she hadn’t asked him to break into her room whilst she slept. For what did he need to come closer to inspect, anyway? Her father never passed up an opportunity to shame and berate her. Yet when the memory played out against her will, she noticed he hadn’t had an expression of disgust, nor of anything at all, watching blankly. Sort of like Riddle’s when he’d ripped it out of her.

Harper shook her head, meeting her own dark eyes in the mirror. She felt like a pawn in a game of chess she was not understanding, for the other pieces had adopted new rules. “It’s nothing,” she told herself firmly. “Nothing for you to think about, anyway.”

She slammed down the hairbrush and returned to her dormitory, intending to study. Of course she couldn’t, so she climbed into bed, debating pulling out the behavior book from under the mattress. But she couldn’t recall a single update for it right now, so she pushed the two wizards out of her mind and went over the forest scene with Felix Murdoch.

Unfortunately, her mind wouldn’t allow that, either. Not ten minutes into it, the scene skipped ahead to her father’s confrontation, his slap, and now the resurfaced memory of him standing over her.

Harper curled herself up into a ball and turned to her side, letting out a breath. Time to throw herself into Occlumency. Though she hated practicing, she more so hated Riddle methodically and brutally bringing up her worst memories.

_Clear your mind, back down the rabbit hole you go, then…_


	3. Realization

_June 1947_

Tom stood in front of his seventh-year student, goading her into fury. “Please. Murdoch is exactly like your father,” he sneered, aiming to make her suffer, the weak, besotted girl. “You haven’t read of the ‘Oedipus complex’ yet? Daddy dearest is pompous and arrogant and so is Murdoch. Not a coincidence, dear.”

To his immense satisfaction, the girl’s cheeks flushed an abashed shade of pink. “That’s not true,” she snapped. “They are nothing alike. In fact, speaking of pompous and arrogant, the one who’s most like my father is you!” 

God, Tom loved riling her up. “Do go on.”

She paced about, fists curling, eyes narrowed in fury. “Both ill-tempered, both power-hungry, both thinking they’re the greatest to grace the wizarding world!”

He stifled a chuckle at her accuracy, but just then she turned to him, the anger dropping from her face, replaced by that irritating blankness. When she spoke, a chill in her voice, he understood her father’s motivation for striking her. 

“Both half-bloods,” she said quietly, pursing her lips and crossing her arms. “And both too ashamed to admit it, hiding behind a wall of hatred.”

Tom felt his face morphing into his own glare, catching himself just in time. The mouthy little thing would pay for that soon enough. Instead of throwing a hex at her like he so desired, he simply smirked.

“Further proving my point about the Oedipus complex,” he told her. “I am similar to him and yet here you are, undressing for me at every opportunity.”

Now her cheeks were positively glowing, sinking into her hands. Perfect—serves her right for her snappy little retort. Tom tucked his wand away and held out his hand, approaching his prize. “Come.”

Harper peered up at him through her heavy eyelids, lips again pressed into a defiant pout. Nursing the sting of his wound, he’d bet.

“I said come, Harper,” he said, betraying just a touch of impatience.

Only a second later, her hand was in his and he was pulling her into the room. Of course she couldn’t resist him. As soon as he’d shut the door, he pinned her against it, overtaking her mouth with his. Her scent, perfume and waving lotion that failed to hold hair as stubborn as its owner, filled his nose. She was warm and soft, her hips the perfect size for his grip.

But she was also hesitant, gearing to pull away. Damn her and her silly, girly “intuition,” but Tom could easily override that. His fingers traveled up the deep curve of her waist and over her breasts to unbutton her robes. Leaning close to her ear, he whispered, “Relax, girl, let me take control.”

She let out a sigh, sagging into him. Again he gripped her hips, pulling her closer, and rubbed his painfully stiff cock against her abdomen. Her lips and tongue were growing urgent, her hands bunching up his robes at the shoulders.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

With his hand on her lower back, he led Harper to his armchair. Like the last time she’d given herself up to him, he coaxed her onto his lap, facing him, treating him to her half-covered bust just below eye-level. Keeping the urge to tear her clothes off at bay, he unbuttoned the rest of her blouse. Though her eyes were still full of uncertainty, she helped him with the last few buttons.

“That’s a good girl,” he said in his best seductive voice, reserved for the very few.

Those words in that tone visibly encouraged her, clearing the doubt in her eyes and sinking her eyelids just a little bit lower. With uncharacteristic boldness, she peeled her blouse and bra away from those glorious breasts, pale and full like two moons dotted with pale pink nubs.

Holding her gaze, he dragged his fingertips across the lush skin and joined them together at her nipples to slightly tug. They heaved under his touch, while her hands gripped his legs and her head tilted back.

“Naughty little witch,” he growled, rolling the hard nubs between his pointer and thumb. “Little seductress.”

She responded by rubbing herself against his erection, letting heavy breaths escape her lips. Damn did she feel good against him, her desire shrouding them like a mist. He dug his fingers deeper into her breasts and yanked her closer.

He aimed for her luscious thighs under her skirt, burying his face into her soft bosom and pulling the soft skin between his teeth. She hissed in pain, but her eyes did not open.

"Such a dirty girl, giving it up to her superiors. Is this how darling Harpalyke gets her way?”

His sharp slap to her rear, a loud _clap_ cutting through the air, caused her to still and let out a yelp. She lifted her head and met his eyes, her own full of confusion. He chuckled at her expression before clasping her jaw and kissing her.

Tom could take it no longer. He meant to nudge the girl gently off his lap, but it came out as a shove, sending her to the floor. “Sorry,” he said without meaning, helping her back to her feet. Briskly, he guided her to the bed. “Lie on your back,” he commanded softly in her ear, her silky hair against his cheek.

Harper did as told, leaving her legs hanging off the side of the bed, skirt hunched in between. To his annoyance, hesitation found her again: she merely blinked up at him, taut with apprehension. 

Feeling his lips tightening, he snatched a fistful of her skirt and yanked it up, pleased to see a spot of dampness in her pale blue knickers. “Take these off,” he ordered, snapping the waistband against her skin.

Slowly, her hands reached her waist. Her thumbs hooked under the fabric, but then she paused, looking away.

“Obey my command, Harper,” Tom warned, crossing his arms.

She sat up, breasts spilling out, and slid her knickers down her clamped-shut legs, peering up at him shyly. “I don’t—I don’t know if we should go this far, sir.”

His first instinct was to tell her to shut up and follow orders, that _should_ mattered not at this point. Instead, he took hold of her thighs and raised them up, pressing her flat onto the bed. “Trust me, darling,” he assured her in a kind voice, prying her knees apart. “And do not question me.”

The look on her face suggested she was having trouble with that, but Tom didn’t care right now, his full attention on the sweet pink lips between her legs. This was how he liked her best, his pureblood prize on her back for him.

He traced her slit with his finger but frustratingly enough, only the faintest remnants of arousal remained. Damn this stubborn little thing and her silly nerves.

Leaning over onto a cushion of breast, he caressed her cheek and kissed her slowly, nibbling her bottom lip. Her eyes finally closed and he was able to work a finger inside of her. After another few seconds, he got two inside, stretching her warm, wet cunt. 

 _“Ohh,”_ she sighed in his ear, clutching his shoulder and moving in rhythm with his thrusts. Meanwhile, her other hand had snaked to his belt buckle and rested there, as if debating on moving lower. Though Tom didn’t really care if she touched him or not—he could take care of himself—he took the hand and rubbed it against his erection. She followed suit on her own, sending a burst of need through his cock and down his legs.

“Good girl,” he hissed, upping the pace with his fingers, filling the air with her musky scent and tiny cries. 

That was it, enough coaxing. If she wasn’t ready by now, though her body sure indicated she was, it was her problem. With his fingers still inside, he climbed off of her and slowly withdrew them, watching the pink flesh tighten in desire. His fingers were soaked but dried quickly, leaving a filmy residue wiped off by his trousers as he undid them.

Stroking his cock, he moved away to survey the entirety of this delicious display. Pure Harper Messier splayed out like a whore, lip bit, begging him with her eyes to take her, not for the first time, mind. His Knights had deemed her “too chubby,” save for Murdoch. Well, also save for Yaxley, but Yaxley had not a snowball’s chance in hell of seducing her, so he was a non-factor in this equation.

The abundance of plump skin was no turn-off for Tom. He enjoyed sinking his fingertips into it like he was now, spreading her thighs as far apart as they would go. The slick pink lips of her cunt hugged his shaft as he rubbed against them, savoring the sensation.

She was moaning now, breasts heaving and hips rocking. When he eased into her, a cry burst from her throat and her fists gripped the blanket at her sides. Tight, raw heat clung to his cock as he moved in and out.

“Naughty little witch is so eager to give it up to me, yes?” he growled through heavy breaths. “You are mine now, do you understand me?”

Her teeth were bared, eyes squeezed shut, approaching climax. He lifted her leg and slapped her sharply on her bottom to re-orient her. She would not be climaxing out of his control.

“Answer me, Harpalyke.”

 She stilled for just a second, eyes wide, but he was pumping into her without pause, disabling her from staying lucid. “Yes!”

“Say it.”

Underneath his palms, he felt her body tensing up, skirting the edge of release, so he spanked her arse once more. _“Say it.”_

“I am yours, sir!” Harper bawled between cries.

“That’s right, girl, I own you…” Tom was embarrassed to be losing his breath, but he couldn’t stop the sentence from tumbling out. “…not him.”

He was unsure which “him” he was referring to—Murdoch, Messier, both, hell, what did it matter? It was Tom she was lying under, digging her nails into his arms in desperation.

His thoughts were drowned out by a howl as she contorted, driving the crown of her head into the bed and scrunching up her pretty face. Her inner walls closed in around his cock before enveloping it with hot fluid.

His own release was approaching at light speed, his muscles seizing in agony. Just as she went limp, he spilled into her and buried his face into her neck, teeth sinking into skin slick and salty with sweat.

 _Get a grip on yourself NOW_ , logic scolded him, prompting him to his feet. Fumbling with his belt with shaking hands, he turned his back on her and fixed himself up. Taking a seat in the armchair, he brushed his hair back with one hand and flicked his wand with the other, conjuring a goblet of firewhiskey. His heart beat on annoyingly fast, but at least he was more collected than the girl sitting on his bed. 

Tom kept his eyes on his student, the corners of his lips lifting into a smirk as he appraised her. Her chest was still heaving, her cheeks flushed red, her hair a rumpled mess. She kept her gaze cast downward as she adjusted her clothing and raked her hands through her hair. However, he noted with aggravation, she was her usual blank-faced self.

While a normal girl would feel some type of _something_ after such an intense encounter, this one looked as if she’d sat through an hour of Defense theory. Trying not to grip the armchair, Tom remarked in his most pleasant teacher-voice, “It’s quite odd, isn’t it, how you normally dislike being addressed by your given name.”

Her head lifted, a brow slightly furrowed. Now they were getting somewhere.

“Yet when I use it during one of our encounters, you grow substantially more excited. Why do you think that is, dear?”

“I don’t know, sir,” she said, but the color in her cheeks deepened. She was lying; Tom didn’t even need Legilimency for that.

Her father insisted on using her given name, while she was equally insistent on going by Harper, a subtle act of rebellion. But such childish rebellion was stripped in the bedroom, real desires revealed. She could insist otherwise all she wanted. 

He raised his wand, ready to open the door, but in the same second, Harper asked, “Professor, what is the concept you’d asked me if I know of?”

“Oedipus complex,” he told her.

“What…is that?” Her voice was tentative, unsure if she wanted an answer. “It was referenced in an essay I’ve read but not stated outright.”

“Have you read the play Oedipus Rex?” He’d been surprised to learn that the Hogwarts Library had a copy of the play. In his school days, Horace Slughorn had told him that the earliest authors’ magical statuses were unclear, though Tom suspected Sophocles had been a muggle, for there was not one mention of magic other than Divination in any of the plays.

Harper nodded. “I have. From what I’ve gathered, the concept was modeled after Oedipus sleeping with his mother…but he knew not Jocasta was his mother until after she’d hung herself.”

Tom was reluctant to admit he’d read the works of Freud, but if there was one thing muggles were proficient at, it was seeking power. Wizards as a whole were guileless and communal. Even Grindelwald’s Greater Good assertions were rooted in the idea of magical beings working as one body, despite the wizard himself snatching up power like the brats at Wool’s when the monthly sack of sweets came around. Muggles, on the other hand, were intent on studying how their inferior minds worked, how they could one-up each other. 

“The concept seems to imply that Oedipus was acting on his implicit urges when he chose Jocasta, his unconscious knowing she was his mother and desiring her, for she had been absent when he was young.” 

Harper mulled it over, lips scrunched into her cheek, before speaking. “Well, alright, so according to this theory—and you—I chose Murdoch because he is most like my father due to some innate drive?”

“Yes, it’s possible,” Tom said before taking a sip of firewhiskey. He didn’t want to drink in front of her and he didn’t want her here, but he didn’t want to let her walk out blank-faced and unbothered. And not with that prissy little eyebrow quirk she was giving him now, either.

“Well, there’s a flaw in that,” she told him, standing up and smoothing down her robes. “Perhaps that’s the case with some daughters’ relationships with their fathers, but not in scorching hell is it with mine. For one, he was around all the bloody time, never missing a chance to tell me what a disgrace I am.”

Her voice had gone hard, her eyes narrowed; no doubt she was recalling the previous summer when her father told her that to her face.

“More than physical presence is required for a relationship, no?” Tom pointed out.

“Sure, I suppose you can count hatred and revulsion,” Harper muttered, lowering her glare to her feet and shuffling across the room. “Why on Earth would my unconscious want more of that? I’m not quite that masochistic, sir.”

Oddly, Tom was not relishing her anger as much as he usually did, which in turn made _him_ angry. His social interactions were chess games, and every so often Harper pulled a move he wasn’t expecting. “You have misinterpreted that memory of him.”

Her hand, reaching for the doorknob, froze. 

“Your father, standing over your bed,” he clarified. “Try to recall it now, particularly his facial expression.”

“What—what are you getting at, sir?” She turned slowly toward him, half confused, half anxious, because she knew exactly what he was getting at.

“Silly girl, use your intelligence,” he chided her, smirking openly now. “There was no disgust there. Not from him.”

Without waiting for a response, Tom waved his wand at the door, effectively ending the conversation. “Goodnight, Miss Messier. I hope you enjoyed your detentions as much as I did.”

He’d struck her dumb with that previous statement. “Goodnight,” she mumbled, skulking out of the room. Tom listened to her footsteps crossing his office, then breaking into a run through the classroom. He chuckled before taking a gulp of firewhiskey.

~

What on Earth had Riddle been on about? Harper could not stop replaying that strange conversation in her head as she trotted back to the Slytherin common room. What did this Oedipus complex have to do with her? What was the significance of that memory? Charles’ facial expression was blank, so…?

“Machiavelli,” she told the stone wall breathlessly once she’d reached it. As she slid through the narrow passageway, her line of questioning was severed by momentary panic: if Murdoch and Yaxley were in the common room, they’d know exactly what was going on. Not that either of them would dare grass on Riddle for anything, but she shuddered to imagine what they’d be saying about her.

 _I’ll be damned if whispers start of_ my _daughter being a filth-loving whore_ , her father’s voice hissed in her ear in the same moment she stepped into the thankfully-empty common room. That started up the questioning again and by the time Harper reached the dormitory, her head was buzzing nearly to madness. Riddle was trying to tell her something about that memory, something more significant than her father’s lack of facial expression.

She yanked up her mattress and snatched a red-covered book titled _Freudian Theories and Psychoanalysis._ Flipping through to the index, she plopped down on her bed. _Oedipal desires, pg. 104._  

Page 104 was under the section titled _From the Interpretation of Dreams_ , a book by Freud that Harper could not get her hands on, not in Muggle London, anyway. The Oedipus complex was referenced in only one line: _A child’s Oedipal desires will manifest in the form of the parent of the opposite sex whether human-like or as a symbol._

Harper hadn’t remembered the line from the first time she’d read it, likely due to skipping it, for she barely understood it now. _A child’s Oedipal desires will manifest in the form of the parent of the opposite sex…_

But as she’d told Riddle, she had no desire for Charles’ presence. The farther away from him, the better off she was. Even Hogwarts wasn’t far enough.

She let out a sigh and slammed the book shut. Riddle was simply toying with her, his favorite pastime, the sadistic prat. Well, she was not playing along, not this time...

However, her mind had other plans, one of which was ruminating over that bloody odd memory. Instead of pushing it away, she saw through the cloud of shame and began to question that, too. What in the hell was Charles doing there, anyway? He never entered her room for any reason…his strange posture…his gaze on her…moving to her face…from where? And then it clicked.

“Oh, Merlin,” she breathed, lying flat on her back.

With that piece, the puzzle was one step closer to completion. Riddle was correct; she’d misinterpreted the cause of her shame. Yet now, Harper did not feel that shame. Nor disgust, nor anything else she ought to have felt. Instead, her hand was up her skirt, fingering her swollen labia as jolts of desire flooded her legs and torso.

 _Not even you’re that improper_ , she’d told herself, but evidently she was. _Naughty, improper, filth-loving whore_ echoed in her ears but rather than getting upset, she rammed her fingers inside of herself until she came hard and fast, spilling hot fluid into her palm.


	4. Catharsis

It was nearing eleven—the end of the year party was in full-swing in the Slytherin common room. No one was very jolly, for the news of Dumbledore’s release from Nurmengard hung heavy in the air.

Harper sat on a sofa against the back wall, flanked by Eileen Prince and Theobroma Tauriello. The latter offered her protection by virtue, since she was most likely to be approached. The trio sipped champagne and tried to blend into the stone wall. 

Several feet away, the upper-year boys had a card game going. Felix Murdoch peered at Harper out of the corner of his blue-green eyes every so often, which thrilled and nettled her simultaneously. She enjoyed his fancy, reciprocated it even though it wouldn’t come to fruition anytime soon, but tonight it was a burden. She had to slip out of the common room unnoticed.

She finally got the chance around half-past, when the four Slytherin boys began to bicker over the game. After a heated shouting match with Rosier, Murdoch slammed his cards down on the table and stormed off. Since they’d consumed at least half a dozen bottles of mead at that point, the card game went on without the pair. Rosier approached Theobroma and Harper took the opportunity to excuse herself from Eileen. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Mhm,” said Eileen, her eyes on Clovis Grisham despite denouncing him not three days ago.

Harper was able to creep the parameter of the room unnoticed, letting out a sigh of relief in the stone passageway. The relief was fleeting, cut brutally short in the corridor by someone seizing her shoulders from behind.

She stumbled, but the hands held her steady and whirled her around until she was face-to-face with Icarus Yaxley.

“Well, well, well,” he said snidely, backing her into the wall. “And where is Miss Messier off to? Awfully late for you to be walking around the castle by yourself.”

“Icarus, I’m a prefect,” she reminded him, placing her hands on his chest, ready to push him away.

“As if that means sod all.” He gripped her shoulders and pinned her to the wall. Heart beating wildly, she clasped onto his wrists.

“Icarus…” 

“Shh,” he said before pressing his mead-flavored lips to hers. She turned her head so that he got her cheek instead.

“Icarus, no—”

“Shut up and let me show you how a wizard of real blood takes care of you,” he hissed in her ear. “Not these tainted idiots you love so much.”

Harper threw up her hands, keeping them flat, and slammed them against his chest with all of her strength. It had the desired effect: he stumbled as he stepped backward, giving her breathing room. 

He narrowed his light blue eyes at her as he straightened up. “You’re not nearly as desirable as you think you are. Little half-blood-loving cow, you’re lucky I even consider you.”

She opened her mouth to snarl a reply, but just then the sound of Mary Janes against the floor filled the corridor. They turned to see Theobroma Tauriello coming through the passageway.

Her hazel eyes swept the scene. It took only a third of a second for her to figure out what was going on, due to Yaxley’s proximity to Harper and the aggravation on both their faces.

“Oi, Yaxley,” she said casually. “Murdoch’s looking for you.”

“Tell him I’m busy,” he snapped at her, still glaring at Harper.

Theobroma sighed and turned on her heel. For one horrible second, Harper thought she was going to heed his request, but then her wand appeared, pointing at his face. _“Confundo!”_

Yexley’s eyes glazed over and he walked past Theobroma into the passageway without a word.

“Merlin, I am sick and _tired_ of these blokes tonight,” she said with a sigh of exasperation. “I just had to turn down Rosier’s tenth marriage proposal. He can’t even speak coherently at this point.”

Harper clasped her shoulders, overcome with gratitude. “Thank you, Theo, but listen, I need another favor.”

“Depends what it is,” Theobroma replied, tucking her wand back into her robes.

“If anyone asks my whereabouts, tell them I’ve gone to bed. I need to, er, check something in a certain section of the library.” 

Luckily, the younger witch bought it, winking and grinning. “Be careful—Elspeth rarely goes to bed before midnight.” She returned to the common room while Harper made her way deeper into the dungeons.

As she crept through the empty Defense room, she swore to herself that she would not give into any of Riddle’s advances should he be so inclined. Her anger was thrice that of last Friday, not going to budge under persuasion.

Just as she raised her fist to knock on the office door, it swung open. “Enter,” said Riddle’s voice from somewhere inside.

Harper stepped in, giving a brief glance around the room. Only the desk lamp was on, casting a dim glow on dozens of scrolls filled with his elegant handwriting. Riddle was seated at his desk—good. 

He was smirking at her, as if her mere presence was amusing him. “Your detention is finished, dear,” he pointed out in that aggravating, pseudo-polite tone. “Though I doubt you’re any more disciplined.”

To her immense frustration, he was looking her up and down with a glimmer of lust in his eyes. He assumed she was there to undress for him. Her lips tightened into a pout, eyes narrowed, and her hand gripped her wand as she waved the door closed. “I was hoping for another lesson, sir. More theory than practical, if you will.”

As he looked on with his eyebrows raised, she seized the wooden chair and pulled it away from the desk. Once her rear was in it, she sat straight, hands clasped in her lap, and continued, “More specifically, a theory I’ve got about why you had me examine that memory.”

“Oh, yes?” asked Riddle, placing his quill on the desk and leaning in with apparent interest. “Do tell.” 

“Because you want me to feel even more shame and unrest,” she bit out, squeezing the knuckles of one hand with the other. 

“Why would I want that, darling?”

“Hell if I know,” Harper snapped; she wasn’t expecting him to explain himself, his senseless cruelty. “Perhaps you think I deserve it. Perhaps you’re simply a sadistic, angry bastard.”

His eyes locked on hers, but his face didn’t reveal the glare she was expecting. “You know, you’re quite insolent, Harpalyke.”

She refused to lower her gaze. His power antics would not work this time. “And you’re quite insufferable, Tom.”

His cool façade slipped, the glare breaking through. Like her, he had a complicated relationship with his given name. But then he smirked and leaned back in his seat. “That’s all you’ve got toward the memory, then? Only shame, or is there something else you wish to bury?” 

She bristled in discomfort; he knew the answer. The problem was that she couldn’t identify what on Earth she felt toward that memory.

“It’s pride,” he told her. “You’ve won his attention at last.”

“No,” Harper whispered, shaking her head and clutching her knees. A viscous flood of shame was filling her throat and she couldn’t swallow it down. “That’s sick. I told you, I don’t want his attention.”

“Liar,” Riddle sneered. “You are not exempt from foolish childhood fancies. Your precious Freud even said it. The sick are driven by the type of attention they earn as a child.” 

She glowered at him; what gave him the right to call her sick? The powerless orphan who would claw his way to the top by any means? Then the anger cleared, prompting her to consider his words. The argument applied to him, too: since he obviously didn’t get enough attention at his orphanage, naturally all of the kissing of his arse at Hogwarts would inflate his ego. “You’re not exempt, either.”

Again she expected his fury, but he didn’t display any. He only continued to stare, taking her in.

“Fine,” Harper sighed after a moment of rumination. “I am proud of myself for winning his attention. Are you happy now, sir? Am I properly ashamed?”

“Well, why don’t we find out, shall we?” her professor suggested. “Perhaps some discipline will help you sort out your little deviance?”

“I—what?” Harper blurted, eyebrows joining over eyes widened in bewilderment.

Chuckling in response, Riddle stood and walked across the office. Harper’s head swiveled around to watch him push open the door to the bedroom. He beckoned her to come before disappearing inside.

Still completely confused, Harper followed him into the cold, still room. It seemed barer somehow, even though he didn’t have many possessions. An open trunk sat next to the wardrobe, which from what she could see of its wooden walls, was nearly empty. She briefly wondered if he was going away for the summer.

While she’d been looking around, he’d taken a seat in the green chintz armchair, sealed the door shut, and filled the fireplace with cackling flames. “Take off your robes and come here,” he ordered.

She raised her eyebrows. “Is this a ploy to get me to—?”

“Do not question me,” he cut her off sternly. “Do as I say.”

Harper was not exactly opposed to undressing for him, so she removed her robes and hung them on the back of the door. Underneath, she was wearing a white sleeveless blouse tucked into a billowed green skirt and white knee socks. After tightening the ribbon in her hair, she approached the man in the armchair.

As soon as she was within reach, he tugged on her skirt. “This will get in my way. Take it off.”

“I don’t see how—”

“I said do as I say, you cheeky little brat.” He was glowering at her now, the fabric of her skirt clasped in his fist. Her instinct was to take a step backward, wide-eyed.

“Fine,” Riddle snapped, releasing her skirt. “Enjoy the rest of your life crawling after Daddy, lapping up his filthy desires.”

Under normal circumstances, Harper would be fighting the urge to slap him round the face, quite similar to the one toward Yaxley earlier in the evening. However, lust had taken over, lust and an intense spark of curiosity in how he was about to proceed.

Her cheeks flushed and her eyes shifted to the bright yellow flames as her hands reached behind her hips and unzipped her skirt. With a slight nudge of the waistband, it fell in a heap around her ankles, leaving her in just her blouse, knickers, and knee socks.

Riddle sure took his time assessing her, dragging his eyes up her thick thighs, nearly as pale as her clothing, and knickers dotted with sewn-in daisies. Now drops of humiliation and reluctance were added to the mix, but desire was still the dominating force, especially when she saw a flash of hunger in his eyes.

“Come here _now._ Lie across my lap.”

She took a step forward, wondering if she was correctly interpreting his command. He wanted her on her stomach over his legs? What on Earth—?

“Insolent girl, let’s _go.”_

Heart beating in her ears, Harper went with her gut instinct, draping herself across his lap chest-down, rear up.

This seemed to be the correct position: “Good girl.” Gentle hands gripped her, one around her jaw, holding her in place, the other around her inner thigh. That one slowly traveled to her rear and began to knead the padding of flesh. This brought waves of desire through her legs and torso, increasing her breath. Against her abdomen, she felt the nudge of his erection. 

SMACK! She let out a surprised yelp as the sensitive skin of her rear smarted with pain. When the second smack came, she merely whimpered despite attempting to squirm away.

“Ah-uh, naughty girl must take her punishment,” Riddle chided as he raised his hand to spank her again. “What a bad little witch you are, letting your desire leak out and feeding into your fantasy.”

SMACK! Harper’s vision was blurred with tears, her ears ringing, her arse cheeks throbbing, but the desire was relentless, prickling her every nerve. 

“Is no one safe from naughty Harpalyke’s seduction? Not even Daddy dearest can resist her ensnarement.”

He slapped her so hard, she let out an involuntary cry, her chin rubbing painfully against his palm. Clutching her tighter, he struck her again. “Such a wayward little witch needs proper discipline. I am your daddy now, is that clear?”

“Yes,” Harper gasped, trying not to spit on his hand. At first she’d been aroused, but her raw, stinging backside dulled all else. Fortunately, she’d given Riddle the correct answer, for he released her chin and prodded her to sit up.

“Come here, darling,” he mumbled, pulling her toward him, holding her hip while she leaned against his chest. Clutching her chin again, he lifted her head up and kissed her fiercely. They continued like that, growing more heated and breathless, for a few moments until he lifted her blouse.

She reached up to pull it back, but he slapped her hand away. “You dare resist me, girl?” He yanked it back up, letting her breasts spill over her too-tight bra, still marked from last week. His mouth connected with the puff of skin and turned it blue-black again while his hand rubbed her between her legs.

 _This is going too far_ , Harper’s mind scolded her. _You’re behaving like a slag._  

The effect it had on her body was the opposite of what her mind intended: her head tilted back, her hand slid through thick, wavy hair at the back of her professor’s head, and her hips rocked in rhythm with his hand. A haze of lust ensconced her, fogging up her conscience, until he abruptly pulled his arm back. 

“Stand up.” 

Harper jumped to her feet. Riddle stood, grabbing her roughly by the hips and pushing her onto the chair, facing away, her knees sinking into the chintz cushion. She had no time to pull her blouse down, for he was pushing her still, bending her over until she gripped the edge of the chair.

His hands were on her in an instant, running down her waist and hips, lighting up her nerves. His fingers slipped under the waistband of her knickers and slid them down her thighs. Once they were down by her knees, those fingers traveled slowly back up, tips dragging across her soft skin, sending chills down her bare legs. By the time he reached her labia, they were clenching with desire. Yearning filled her abdomen, straining it beyond capacity. 

“Naughty little witch is ready for it, I see.” His free hand wrapped around her chin and pulled her back, his pointer finger draped across her lips. A sigh breathed against it as his lips met her neck near her shoulder. He tugged the skin through his teeth, sending jolts down her spine, while two long fingers buried themselves in hot, wet flesh.

After barely a minute, he withdrew and released her, leaving her untouched for an agonizing second. Just as she was about to turn around and command him, albeit as gently as possible, to continue, she felt his palms on her hips again. He entered her slowly, his tip awakening the bundle of pleasure deep within.

Harper was being pulled back again, but Riddle couldn’t get as close, since her not-exactly-petite rear was in the way. He settled on grasping her hair, which stung, along with her inner thigh, opening her legs wider and allowing better access to that spot of heaven.

“That’s my precious girl,” he growled from behind her, thrusting up to the hilt, his legs slamming against her arse cheeks. “My sweet little witch loves to give it up for me, yes, darling?”

Harper was flying through the clouds, the heat of the atmosphere burning her cheeks, colors of all shades whizzing by. The spot of heaven had expanded, encompassing her entire body and holding it tightly.

“Answer me, Harpalyke,” came Riddle’s voice from far away. A sharp sting on her bottom was quickly consumed by pleasure.

“Yes!” she burst out, gripping the edge of the chair and locking her muscles, trying not to budge as he rammed into her.

“Yes, who?”

“Daddy!” As soon as the cry left her mouth, white static overtook all and she seized up, emitting a gush of fluid. For at least a few seconds, Harper was suspended in outer space, floating weightlessly, static humming in her ears.

When she touched gently back to Earth, she found that she’d slid off the chair and onto the floor, her legs bent under her. Through heavy breaths, she heard Riddle’s belt buckle and the chair scrape the wood as he took a seat, his legs pressed against her back.

All matter under her skin was bouncing around, causing her hands to wobble as she placed them on the floor. While she groped for the pile that was her skirt, a tsunami of emotions nearly knocked her to her side: horror at what she’d just done, shame surrounding the chaos with her father, grief from leaving Hogwarts, and fear of Riddle, what he’d do to her behavior book when she gave it to him tomorrow, and to her memory.

Under her professor’s gaze, disregarding him entirely, Harper finally got ahold of her skirt, buried her face into the cotton fabric, and wept.

~

Tom watched the girl in front of him cry unabashedly into her skirt. He’d done it—he’d broken her, just like he wanted. So then why did he feel nothing, not one ounce of satisfaction?

He extended a hand, sinking his fingers into her silky hair. From all the exertion, the curl had straightened out, so he was able to run them entirely through, letting it fall against her shaking shoulders. The green and silver ribbon holding it back slid down her arm and onto the floor.

After another minute, Harper went still, sat upright, and pulled out a handkerchief. “I’m done crying, sir,” she muttered to her knees.

Tom leaned back in his seat and watched her dab at her face and brush her hair back. Still breathing heavily, she tucked her handkerchief back into her blouse and pulled her skirt over her legs. Then she turned her red-rimmed dark eyes on him, tilting her head. In those eyes, he saw something that wasn’t there before.

“Professor,” she said in a voice thick with exhaustion. “Do we all have a bit of deviance?” 

“Of that I am certain,” he told her.

She kept her eyes on him, waiting for him to elaborate. He glanced at the fire, thinking carefully before he spoke. “’Deviance’ is a label put in place to make weak-minded people feel better about themselves. Who decides what is deviant? Society? The Ministry? Family? Obviously not the latter, in your case.”

Harper’s lips pressed into her cheek, gaze straying to the floor. “Alright, I accept that everyone has deviant tendencies to some degree. But it matters not unless we act upon them, yes?”

Tom shook his head. “Not even then.” At the confused wrinkle of her brow, he added, “There is nothing wrong with seeking out what you desire most, Harper.”

“What separates the healthy from the sick, then?”

“The unconscious, Freud would say, yes? Shame and all those weakening feelings. Once you sort those, you can separate them from your behavior and reach your goal without interference. Haven’t you read of this?”

“Yes,” she replied huffily. “I just don’t understand it as well as you do, as _I’m_ not trying to manipulate everyone.”

Her hand clapped over her mouth, but Tom merely chuckled. She was rather cute when agitated, even while hurling insults at him. “Have I made it clearer for you, dear?”

Harper nodded and stood, pulling on her skirt and zipping it up, all the while giving him a look of appraisal. He sank into her mind but it was a jumbled mess in there—she had no idea what to do, how to assess the situation. “Goodnight, sir,” she said, turning toward the door.

Tom flung it open with a flick of his wand. “Goodnight, Miss Messier.”

The door closed itself behind her, leaving him alone by the fire. His watch told him it was nearly one in the morning. This would not be the last of her; she still owed him her behavior book, after which he could do what he wanted to her. He could Obliviate her like he did her friend McCready. It was the prospect of this, he saw when she was crying, that upset Harper the most. A Memory Charm, rather than her family dysfunction and departure from Hogwarts.

He very well could and probably should attempt a Memory Charm, given that she knew quite a lot about him and many others. The process didn’t have to be brutal if he felt like showing mercy, softly peeling the selected memories away. A mind like hers required subtlety, for it would sense something was gone and go digging until it found out what.

She’d want to hold onto it all, even this rubbish with her father, to remember the anguish preceding the triumph. Since when did it matter what _she_ wanted? But for some reason, Tom wasn’t keen on Obliviating her. The idea brought not a glimmer of excitement. And so he would not, he decided. He had better things to channel mental energy into.

He pulled his gaze from the fire and stared straight ahead. Besides, he reasoned with himself, her intact memory would be much more useful later if he ever needed to blackmail her with it. 

When the blue after-image of the flames cleared, his eyes detected a spot of out-of-place color on the wooden floor: Harper’s hair ribbon, the silver lining catching the light of the flames.

Tom stood and picked it up, intending to throw it in the fire. Instead, he turned back, his arm working outside of his brain’s command, and tossed it into his open trunk.


	5. Finally, Release

At last it was Friday. The week had been long and difficult but with a sweet cherry on top: a date with the Senior Undersecretary for the Minister of Magic.

That itself had been a challenge, since everyone who knew Charles knew he was married, which weeded out the more virtuous witches. Lucky for him, Praxidike Warner was much less virtuous than she had everyone believe. Most other 36-year-olds would have been slightly older for his taste, but only a fool wouldn’t look twice at her. Three weeks prior, he’d gotten her to a restaurant; chances were looking good that tonight he’d get her to bed.

On the desk in front of him was a research grant the Department of Mysteries was asking for approval. Since Grindelwald took over, the number of requests for experimentation on muggles nearly doubled, to all of which Charles had free reign to allocate funding. He’d gladly approve funds for the extermination of all the filth, but a request of that nature hadn’t come through yet.

The proposal was about 25 pages total, and he was lost halfway through the second. No matter, it could wait until Monday. Leaning back in his high-backed chair, Charles checked his watch. Half-four—perhaps he was done for the day.

His eyes strayed to the charmed window depicting a city-wide view. However, his gaze didn’t remain there, falling to the picture of his daughters at the far end of his desk. There they stood at equal height in matching dresses, hats, and solemn attitudes. 

Normally he avoided the picture lest he bring up all the ill feelings he had toward the pair of them. Ananke had just been sent back to the mental ward and Harpalyke was still not married. She was sure to stay out of his way since she’d returned from Hogwarts for the final time, shutting herself up in her room. Charles was equally keen on avoiding her and home altogether.

Yet sometimes, like now, the girls managed to capture him when he was off guard and hold him hostage. 

A knock on the door jerked him to attention. Checking his watch again—nearly 15 minutes had escaped from under his nose—he called, “Enter.”

The door opened, revealing the tall, smarmy-faced figure of the last person Charles wanted to see at any time, let alone on a Friday afternoon: Daedalus Yaxley.

“Ah, Daedalus!” Charles was nothing if not able to keep up a polite guise. “Do come in. How is it going down in Catastrophes?”

“Not as great as up here, I see,” said Yaxley as he took a seat in front of the desk and cast a glance around the large office. To Charles’ delight, a look of envy slipped through the false cheer. 

“Pity,” he replied insincerely. “How can I help?” 

Yaxley looked at him head-on, the spark of pompousness returned. Though Charles held a higher position in the Ministry, this self-righteous git never failed to rub his Sacred 28 status in everyone’s faces.

This time, surprisingly, he did not plunge into a monologue about his pointless life. Instead, he looked at the photograph of the girls and remarked, “Merlin, your daughters are beautiful, Charles.”

“Thank you,” Charles replied stiffly, glancing at where Yaxley was looking, which to his aggravation was the voluptuous one on the left. Both girls had their noses turned up at Yaxley, facing away.

“Yes, my boy Icarus was quite interested in them,” he mused, raising a pale eyebrow at the girls. “He took quite a fancy to Harpalyke in particular. She’s the one on the left, yes? Wouldn’t consider anyone else…until she rejected him, of course.” 

Charles glared at the girl in the photo as if that very one had been responsible. “I will tell her to reconsider,” he assured the other wizard. “Now that they have finished Hogwarts—”

“Yes, he was not pleased at all,” Yaxley continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

“I will speak to her,” Charles repeated, feeling his hands curl into fists under the desk.

The words were met with one of Yaxley’s cool stares. Normally, Charles could match the intensity but he was too preoccupied at the moment.

“With all due respect, Charles, I highly doubt she’d listen to you. She’s clearly not in your control anymore.” Yaxley flashed a grin at the younger girl. “Icarus has told me many interesting things.” 

“What do you mean, Daedalus?” Charles tried to keep his tone bland, but the edge still sliced through. 

Yaxley shrugged, trying and failing to keep a guise of neutrality.

“I repeat,” Charles snapped, goaded to open impatience. _“What are you talking about,_ Daedalus?”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you knew.” The git even slanted his eyebrows in pseudo-concern. Charles was half expecting him to clutch his nonexistent heart.

“Please enlighten me, Daedalus,” he bit out. 

Yaxley leaned in and instantly dropped the bollocks act. “Icarus told me of a nasty rumor regarding your daughter.”

Since his blue eyes were on Ananke in the photograph, Charles forgot about the previous conversation and assumed he was referring to her. “Yes, as I’ve told the collective Ministry by now, we are getting her help,” he said, weary from reciting the same sordid story, receiving looks of scorn disguised as pity. As if it was his fault the bitch was mental. 

“No, not her. I told you, Icarus is interested in Harpalyke, not the other one. However, rumor has it that she went to bed with a professor at Hogwarts.” 

“It is not true, Daedalus,” Charles told him firmly, but his heart was kicking up. “Harpalyke would never engage in such behavior. She was raised better than that.” 

Yaxley was soaking in his confusion, keeping his gaze steady. “Was she, Charles? This is not the first time Icarus has spoken of her misadventures, landing herself in a bunch of detentions. Suppose that’s how it got started…” 

A faint but piercing ringing was starting up in Charles’ ears, but he sat as still as a statue, keeping his face carefully blank while wishing for a bolt of lightning to crash through his office and cleave Yaxley’s head in half.

“Don’t be too upset, Charles,” the pisser said in a fake-friendly tone. “The professor’s name is Tom Riddle and he’s quite the charmer. Young, handsome, brilliant. Icarus is far enough up his arse. Only flaw is that he’s a half-blood, but your daughter has an affinity for lesser blood, yes? Given that affair with Murdoch’s son.”

He trailed off, looking thoughtfully at the photograph. Meanwhile, all of Charles’ internal organs were combusting, his veins running hot with fury. He pictured that little half-blood scum from Armando Dippet’s office, how he’d led his daughter away and did Merlin-knows-what with her. No, Yaxley’s bastard of a son was lying, lashing out after rejection.

Yaxley stood, and Charles refused to look up, burning a hole in his leg with his eyes instead.

“Anyway, I have consoled Icarus and we’ve both agreed that Harpalyke is not a suitable wife for him.” He looked at the photo again. “Pity. She really is a looker.” 

Letting the triumph pass over his face, Yaxley turned away and strode out of the office. “Have a good weekend, Charles,” he called over his shoulder.

Charles couldn’t unclench his teeth to respond. He continued to sit still, refusing to look to his right at the photograph, to howl with rage, refusing the echo of Yaxley’s ugly taunt.

 _That Harpalyke is not a suitable wife…pity…_ Marrying off his daughters had been his last ticket to securing his status. _That little fucking whore_. He’d make her pay. But first, to arrange a meeting with this little half-blood filth.

“Miranda, contact the headmaster of Hogwarts and tell him to get Tom Riddle in my fireplace at once,” he ordered into the gramophone. 

“Yes, Mr. Messier,” came the dull voice of his old-as-dirt but efficient senior secretary.

An eternal ten minutes passed with his eyes stuck to the fire, willing it to turn green. He would only speak one single command to this little boy: “Touch her ever again and you will be sorry.”

He never got the chance, for Miranda informed him that according to Armando Dippet, Riddle was on sabbatical. Now shaking with fury, Charles told her calmly that he was leaving for the weekend, stood with his hands clenched into fists, and left the office.

“You as well,” he said over and over to those wishing him a nice weekend in the corridors, elevators, and Atrium. Not a single one of them meant it, but he didn’t care. It was a mark of his power, one he usually reveled in but currently could not. 

By the fountain, Praxidike Warner was waiting for him, casting furtive glances around the Atrium. Charles’ first idea was to disregard her, but she was the mental type to exact revenge in some girlish, dramatic fashion he didn’t have patience for.

“Terribly sorry, darling, but I must postpone our date until next week,” he said, mustering up a pleasant tone as he approached. “I’ve got an urgent obligation I must attend to.”

She wrinkled a brow, affronted, but she caught it soon enough. “Oh, dear. Well, I do hope everything’s alright…”

The rest was drowned out, as he was already walking away. Thankfully, he managed to arrive at Apparition Alley without having to speak to anyone else.

Only when his feet touched the floor of the foyer at Number 18 did Charles allow the fury to take over. He immediately pulled off his Ministry robes and flung them at the elf. “Restore the wards,” he commanded before stalking down the corridor.

Euporie was in the parlor, sipping a glass of champagne and reading Witch Weekly. As per usual when her husband came home from work, she gave him a smile, attempting to mask the uncertainty in her eyes, gauging his mood. “Hello darling, you’re home quite early.” 

Charles almost didn’t hear her over the incessant ringing in his ears. “Where is she?” he demanded, stomping back out of the parlor. 

“Who?” 

Not bothering to elaborate, he continued onto the dining hall. There she was, stuffing her fat little face with treacle tarts. She looked up, appraising him like Euporie had, before averting her eyes. Her fork sank into another piece, but before he knew what he was doing, Charles snatched the plate off the table and smashed it against the wall. 

Porcelain shatters thudded to the floor, leaving a cinnamon-colored stain on the wall, which he paid no mind. “You filthy, repugnant little bitch,” he growled at his now wide-eyed daughter. “How _dare_ you bring such shame upon our family. Do you understand how hard I’ve worked to give you what you’ve got?” 

“Charles!” Euporie was squawking from the corridor.

“Yes, Father!” the girl burst out, backing herself away from the table. Just as she was about to rise, he grabbed her jaw, holding her in place.

“Charles, no!” Euporie yelped, crashing into the room. Before she reached him, he released Harpalyke and turned to her, speaking calmly.

“Dear Euporie, would you like to hear what our darling daughter has been doing?”

Euporie stopped in her tracks, breathing heavily. 

“Instead of finding a husband like she’s expected to, our sweet girl gave herself up to that nice half-blood professor who helped her so very much when Ananke was sent to St. Mungo’s.”

His wife’s eyes clouded with confusion and disbelief. “Is this true, Harpalyke?”

The girl didn’t respond, keeping her eyes on the table, jaw set.

“Answer your mother,” Charles ordered.

He was met with silence. This little bitch simply loved to defy him. Boiling anger rushed through Charles’ veins, reaching his brain and shutting it off. 

“Are you happy now that you’ve destroyed our reputation?” he spat at her. “Was this part of the plan, you sick little bitch?” 

"Charles! How dare you..." 

Euporie’s words were drowned out by the ringing taking over. Blood turned to lava as his vision hazed, his hand reaching out on their own, his feet carrying him closer. 

Her skin was soft against his palms, eyes deliciously wide with fear. “Father,” she breathed as he tightened his grip on her neck, baring his teeth. As her face turned from porcelain to berry-red, she groped at her chest for her wand, but she was in her dining robes. They had no pockets for wands, for magic was not permitted in the dining hall. 

Which meant that Euporie didn’t have hers either, reducing her to a feral animal. Long fingernails sliced through his arm as she clawed at it, trying to pry his hands away. One of those awful nails dug through a few layers of skin, bringing forth sharp pain and a smear of blood. Charles let go of Harpalyke and shoved his wife away from him. Since she was about seven stone and tottering on heels, she went straight to the floor. 

He wasted no time pulling his wand and brandishing it at her. In the same instant he opened his mouth to yell an incantation, a flash of long, dark hair caught his eye as Harpalyke fled to the corridor.

“Charles, no!” Euporie bawled, but he paid her no attention, following the girl. Her heavy, frantic breaths filled the corridor, her hair so close he could almost grasp it. She was faster than he would’ve guessed with all that extra padding on her. Her dress was just out of reach as she climbed up the stairs.

He finally caught her as she was stepping through the doorway to her bedroom, her hand preemptively outstretched for the wand on her bed. He seized her from behind, slammed her against the wall, and dug his wand into her cheek.

“Let go of me!” she shrieked, thrashing and kicking. “Father, please—!”

 _“Silencio,”_ he hissed, lowering his wand to her throat. “Do not resist, or you’ll get a real dose of the worst pain you’ve ever felt, girl, do you understand me?” 

She nodded jerkily. Charles prodded her temple with his wand and leaned in to growl in her ear. “Perhaps you need to be taught a lesson for behaving like such filth.”

He pressed into her, pinning her into the wall, and touched his forehead to hers. How beautiful her eyes were, filled with tears, pleading with him. Against his chest, he felt the cushion of her breasts, his erection snug against her lower belly. Tears spilled down her flushed cheeks. 

“Perhaps you need me to show you your place under a wizard, yes?” His hand found her soft hip, grasping it tightly as he rubbed against her.

 _No_ , she mouthed, crying openly now, and he just might have done it, he might’ve lifted his daughter’s dress and fucked her into submission, but then Euporie came charging at him out of nowhere with her wand raised.

_“Relashio!”_

Charles was forced backward, away from Harpalyke, who collapsed to the floor, her face in her hands. He turned to Euporie in disbelief; she was normally one step above a muggle in regard to magical ability, or any type of intelligence for that matter. In this moment, she strongly resembled Ananke in the midst of a fit, unhinged: hair a mess, eyes wide, tiny chest heaving. 

He pointed his wand at her in warning. “Do not ever use magic against me again.”

Next to him, Harpalyke scrambled to her feet and burst into her room, slamming the door closed, leaving her parents in the corridor, glaring at each other.

“Your own daughter,” Euporie choked out, tears running down her cheeks. Her eyes were filled with something he’d never seen before. “How could you, Charles?” 

He had no answer, so he tucked his wand back in his robes and walked in the opposite direction, heading to the library. Once inside, he closed and locked the door with a shaking hand. The room was stifling and silent, the complete opposite of his nerves, which were still on fire.

He took a seat in one of the leather sofas, letting out a breath as the gravity of what he’d just done hunched his shoulders. _Your own daughter, how could you?_ He still had no answer.

His elbows met his knees, his fingers on his temples, his insides hardening into lead. The sun slipped below the horizon as evening turned into night, and still he remained seated with his head in his hands. 

~ 

Harper’s back screamed with pain as she uncurled herself from the fetal position. Someone had opened the door, and the shadowed silhouette was barely visible through her burning, swollen eyelids.

She gripped her wand and licked her lips, the incantation for a stunning spell hovering in the back of her throat. Her arm trembled as she raised it. The knowledge of the motive behind her father’s actions chilled her to the bone.

“Harpalyke,” her mother’s murky voice said before the door closed behind the silhouette. In the glow of the streetlight, Harper could see Euporie’s puffy eyes and blotchy cheeks. She took tentative steps across the room and around the bed. No clicking of heels—she was barefoot. 

At the sight of her daughter huddled in the corner next to the night table, Euporie’s face crumpled and she sank to her knees. Harper watched her, lowering her fist with her wand to the floor.

“Oh, Merlin,” her mother sobbed quietly, taking Harper’s face into her hands. “Did he hurt you?” 

Harper was unsure, still feeling his fingers digging into her hip, his erection through their robes. Her stomach was churning, threatening to unleash all remnants of treacle tart. Eventually, she managed to shake her head.

Her mother looked like she didn’t quite believe her, but rather than protest, she pulled Harper closer and brushed her hair away from her face. The semi-pleasant—under the circumstances—caress went on for about a minute before Euporie suddenly pulled away.

“Take this,” she whispered, pressing something thin and made of metal into Harper’s palm. Harper looked down and saw that it was a large bronze key with an ornate letter S embedded in the handle.

“The last of the Selwyn inheritance is in a vault deep inside Gringotts,” Euporie explained, bent close to Harper’s ear. “Give this to the goblins and take some, enough to get away for a little while. And for the love of Merlin, stay away from that half-blood.” 

“And you?” Harper whispered, rolling the key into her other hand.

“Don’t stress about me, dear,” Euporie said, back to her cheerful-at-all-costs demeanor. “You just have yourself a nice vacation, perhaps until Healer Training starts.”

Harper stared at her, weighing her words carefully. Regardless of how much was in the Selwyn vault, she was not coming back to Number 18 for a very long time. “Mother,” she said gently. “We can leave together and…we haven’t got to come back.” 

Her mother’s hand flew to her chest. “Merlin, no. I could never leave your father on his own, dear. I surely love him.”

Harper looked into her eyes and saw her sincerity; she really did love Charles. From a logical standpoint, it made sense, given the Selwyn family values drummed into her head since birth, and the Selwyn family wasn’t known for kind child-rearing. Euporie was unwilling to consider a future without a man who abused his daughters.

 _No,_ Harper said silently, _I can’t perpetuate that._ She couldn’t help Euporie, only herself, and Annie, and anyone under her care when she reached Healer status. It was up to her to break the chain of maltreatment inflicted on the Selwyn girls. 

Pushing away the hair stuck to the dried tears on her cheeks, she stood up, eyes cast to the floor. “I must prepare now. Where is he?” 

Euporie shook her head, climbing to her feet as well. Her wincing did not go unnoticed by Harper. “I don’t know. Please don’t leave until he’s at the Ministry. It’s safest that way.” She reached out a hand trembling as much as Harper’s, and rubbed her arm. “Sleep well, dear daughter.”

When she left, Harper wrapped herself in a cocoon of quilts with her hand around her wand, resting against her chest. Sleep, when it bothered to grace her, was shallow and fragmented. She dreamt—or perhaps imagined—her father standing over her, that mad gleam in his eye. But after a blink, he was gone. A shiver jolted her lucid and the sleep intervals were shorter after that. 

The pale morning sunlight started to peak through the blinds and the birds sang, disguising the cloud of misery within Number 18. Harper’s neck was stiff, her throat dry. Fortunately, sleep made a brief visit, but less than an hour later, she was awakened by her bedroom door opening.

She was facing away, so she quickly snapped her eyes closed, hearing footsteps approach. Heavy ones, not Euporie’s heels. Every hair stood on end under the tightly-wrapped quilt.

He did not walk around the bed, standing silently behind her. Ten seconds passed, twenty, thirty…

“Charles,” called Euporie in a somewhat snappish tone from the foot of the stairs. “Your tea will grow cold.”

Without a word, Charles left the room and closed the door behind him. Harper let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. About twenty minutes later, she heard the front door slam. At last, he was gone.

Harper sat up, rubbed her eyes, and checked her watch—8:10. The most optimal time to be in Gringotts was around ten, when all of Charles’ cohorts would be at the Ministry knee-deep in financial growth proposals. Sleep still tugged at her muscles, wearing them down, while her pillow was calling her name. Her eyelids sank down, but she shook her head. She couldn’t risk sleeping through her best chance. 

Finally, the clock struck ten and Harper stepped over the ledge separating Number 18 from the outside. She briefly considered calling goodbye to Euporie, but she ultimately decided against it.

Outside the air was sticky and warm, but Harper kept the hood of her robes up as she moved through the bustling streets, making her way to Diagon Alley. Gringotts was quiet as expected. Blank-faced and fighting exhaustion, Harper handed the brass key to the goblin and followed him to the trolley car. The Selwyn vault was rather deep, close to what sounded like something large and alive just beyond the track.

When she’d filled her rucksack with as many galleons as she could fit, she moved onto the next destination. By now she was terribly hungry, but finding shelter was more of a priority. Down a tiny cobblestone alley was a large blue Victorian house with an abundance of flowers in the tiny patch of dirt next to the steps. Harper climbed them and rang the bell marked “Finnegan.”

A few minutes passed before a stout, buxom witch with a stained apron over pale green robes pulled open the door.

“Good morning, I’m looking for Miss Finnegan,” Harper said, anxiety soaking through her voice. 

The lady eyed her up and down. “That’ll be me.”

“Have you by any chance a room free?” It came out a bit blunter than Harper intended, but Miss Finnegan was too busy assessing her. She’d put on nice robes and styled her hair, but she was aware of her puffy eyelids and dark circles under her eyes.

“I can pay upfront,” she added.

“Who sent you, then? You’re not in any trouble, are you?” 

“No, madam. I’ve got a girlfriend here by the name of Theobroma Tauriello.”

Miss Finnegan nodded, suspicion fading from her eyes. “Aye, always out and about, that one. Well, come in, then. I’ve got a room on the second floor.”

She stepped away, and Harper followed her up narrow, creaky stairs to a small room overlooking the alley, bare except for faintly-yellowed lace curtains, a wooden desk with a small mirror, wardrobe, and made-up cot. She accepted the price and handed over the galleons.

Once Miss Finnegan left to resume cooking, Harper inspected the room once more, dropping her rucksack and picking up the small mirror. Already she looked better, healthier, even without sleep and food.

Sitting on the edge of the cot, she held up the mirror and watched herself reflect on the past year. So much had changed. With a sharp sting of her chest, she recalled her adventures with Felix Murdoch, who she’d fancied the most of any boy. Yet she’d gone to bed with Tom Riddle, who cared nothing for her and tried to play her like a game of chess. 

She placed the mirror glass-down on the desk and directed her gaze to a grey-striped cat meandering across the alley, bathed in sunlight. 

Harper didn’t care for Riddle either. He—and Charles, she reluctantly had to admit—had taught her about their type, the world, herself. And above all, they’d reinforced that a Healer’s license was much more desirable—and attainable—than a husband. Perhaps Charles was right and she wasn’t fit to be a wife at all.

Regardless, I win, she told herself with a small grin of triumph as she lie on the cot, her head sinking into the slightly musty but soft pillow. 

~ 

_The End_

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone interested: I'd originally chosen Harper's given name (Harpalyke) for a different reason, but upon further research, I found out that in Greek mythology, Harpalyke was the target of her father's incestuous desires. My reconstitution of that myth can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16988298/chapters/39932562).
> 
> Anyway, bye, thanks for reading<3


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